


Sore Loser

by aban_asaara



Series: Strange Places: Fenris and Amabel Hawke [10]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Romance, Smut, Strip Wicked Grace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 13:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21075320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: When Hawke initiates a game of strip Wicked Grace, Fenris rises to the challenge ... in more ways than one.





	Sore Loser

**Author's Note:**

> I’d been meaning to write this for the longest time, so now that I finally got around to it I just had to treat myself to a self-indulgent commission to go with my equally self-indulgent fic. :D Many thanks to the incomparable [paragonraptors](https://paragonraptors.tumblr.com/) for this amazing piece, and to [theherocomplex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex) for beta-reading this (and giving me the idea in the first place even though she probably doesn’t remember this)! <3
> 
>   


“_Again?!_”

Fenris watches as Hawke tosses her cards down on the table, mouth pursed into a rosebud. Not a single matching suit in her hand—somehow worse than his lone pair of daggers—and he cannot help the smirk that stretches his lips.

He flicks the Angel of Death on top of the discarded cards. “Again,” he says, then clicks his tongue when she reaches for one of her stockings. “The brassiere goes.”

Her glower could have sent the Angel of Death running, but she unclasps the fastenings all the same. “You hateful, hateful man,” she says, then her breasts spill free, rosy nipples hardening in the cool air of the study. Fenris smiles as he brings his glass of wine to his lips. “Oh, and look at you, so bloody pleased with yourself.”

He laughs despite himself. “With this winning streak? Quite.”

Five rounds of strip Wicked Grace, and heʼs only relinquished his belt, while the Champion is down to her stockings and smallclothes. His trousers have felt a size too small since her dress came off, but it seems a fair tradeoff for the sight of her skin shivering gold in the firelight.

Never one for patience, Hawke, not when she’s had to fight for every comfort. But Fenris knows denial: he endured hours under the glare of the Seheron sun while his master reclined in the shade, learned to function on as little sleep or food as Hadriana’s vagaries dictated. Those denials he hopes to never suffer again—but the lazy heat that stirs the pit of his stomach while Hawke sheds her clothes one at a time, the sweet anticipation of desire at last indulged?

_That _he likes. That he gladly endures, knowing what the reward will be.

Evidently, Hawke has other opinions on the matter. “It’s not _fair_,” she says, blowing out a deep breath.

“Might I remind you this was your idea?” And premeditated too: the gauzy layers of Orlesian lace her dress concealed are no accident, but it wouldn’t be the first time Hawke found an idea more appealing than its outcome.

“Well, I’m not above admitting it was a stupid idea,” she retorts. “And technically, it was _Isabela’s_ idea. Get Fenris to play strip Wicked Grace, she said. You’ll have him naked in no time, she said.”

He owes Isabela a drink or two, apparently. “You forget one thing: Isabela cheats. Although even she would be hard-pressed to be hiding cards with so few clothes on.”

Her mouth quirks at that, but she manages to keep hold of her indignation. “I want to see you, too,” she says with an uncharacteristic stammer.

The blood creeps up to her face, setting her cheeks aglow. His groin stirs again at the sight. “And _who _has to keep his hands to himself while the most beautiful woman in the city is sitting within arm’s reach in nothing but her smalls?”

A mistake, he realizes too late. Her sour mood sweetens, and a crooked smile slants her wine-stained mouth. “Oh, how _selfish_ of me not to consider the agony of having to sit there while I’m wearing _so _few clothes. In fact”—she rises to her feet in a long, deliberate stretch, and Fenris’s cock responds in kind—“now that you mention it, I can’t help but notice it’s a bit nippy, considering how _so very few clothes _I’ve on. Mind if I sit closer to the fire?” she asks above the curve of one firelit shoulder.

She does not wait for an answer before dragging her armchair towards the fireplace, plump bottom sticking out in her idea of an enticing pose. The hard scraping noise of wood on wood should ruin the effect, but Fenris is not granted this small mercy, and swallows hard as she drapes herself over the armchair.

Closer to the fire and now in full display, without the table blocking the view. She sweeps her legs over the armrest and arches her chest up, breasts sticking out at him like peaches on a branch. The pose is artless, unsubtle, but it hardly matters: the fire gilds the soft curves of her body, and the wine in her glass casts a red, shivering crescent on the swell of her breast as she takes a long swallow. “Ah, much better,” she sighs over the crystal rim.

The laces of his trousers strain against his stiffening cock. Fenris smoothes his features into his best Wicked Grace face, but Hawke does not miss the hand he slips under the table to readjust himself. Her blue eyes glimmer above a lopsided grin.

_Fasta vass_. Her strategy, obvious as it is, works. She spends the next round stretching and folding herself into all sorts of poses, brushing her breasts with the cards, nibbling her bottom lip as she considers her next move, parting her legs so that the creamy expanse of her thighs glows in the flames. It would be ridiculous if she did not look so enticing. He is fully erect by the time she wins the round, celebrating her victory with a little shimmy that sends her breasts jiggling alluringly. Fenris stares at his losing hand, trying not to imagine one of those breasts sitting in his palm instead.

Hawke taps a pensive finger to her lips. “Shirt off, please,” she decides. Nothing he can do but comply, and he welcomes the cooler air as he drops his shirt to the floor. “Well, itʼs a start, I suppose,” she says, an appreciative gleam lighting up her eyes as they roam his chest. “So many clothes left to win off you, though. Not much we can do till then, Iʼm afraid.”

_I can think of a few things_, Fenris almost replies, but he knows better. The square of silk covering her sex is so thin he can see the fleshy outline of her folds through it. He wouldnʼt even need to take the flimsy little thing off her to reduce her to a helpless, gibbering mess.

But he is not about to reward her poor sportsmanship.

“Sore loser,” he retorts instead.

Hawke cocks one dark eyebrow. “Oh, I bet it’s not me who’s sorest right now,” she teases, all sweet smiles and batting lashes.

“The night is young,” he replies, his voice not quite his own.

Even in the dancing firelight, he can see the colour riding high on her cheekbones, setting her eyes ablaze. “Ooh, is that a threat? Trying to throw me off my game?”

“A promise,” he amends, returning her sideways grin with one of his own. “Now deal the cards again. I want to win that strip of fabric off you once and for all.”

Another mistake: she does as she is bid, but her smile as she gathers and shuffles the cards is ominously innocent. “_Oops_,” she says, then ends her riffle by sending the cards flying off the table. “Aw, look at me. A druffalo in a Serault glass shop.”

Fenris groans. He almost offers to pick the cards off the floor himself, but he refuses to give Hawke the satisfaction. So he watches, pinned to his chair as she plucks them one at a time like flowers in a field, bending over with her arse in the air then tossing her hair back as she unfurls in a graceful sway. Fair play to her: he did not think he could get any harder, but the strain of his erection is nothing short of maddening as the golden arch of her body moves in the firelight.

One of the cards slid under his chair, or so she claims: he feels little inclination to believe her while she gropes about the floor on all fours, her black head bobbing between his knees. Then she stands up before him, her breasts two half-moons shining gold; the delicate silk of her smalls leaves nothing to the imagination, and all he can think of is the wet heat he would find there. She holds the Angel of Fortitude pinched between two fingers and skims it back and forth along her collarbone, surveying him.

The challenge in her gaze is clear: touch her. Reach up to caress her breasts. Pull her smalls off to the side and pleasure her with his fingers. Drop to his knees and use his tongue, hands curved around her arse.

He grips the armrests. In his mind he now has her bent over the table, his hips slamming against her buttocks as he makes love to her from behind.

Instead he lifts one eyebrow. “_Well?_ Are you dealing the cards or not?”

The tent of his arousal in his trousers somewhat undermines the nonchalant tone, but Hawke blinks before recovering, tucking a handful of cards into her waistband and rolling her hips. “You want them? Come and get them.”

The Angel of Fortitude is now staring him in the face, taunting him. Fenris reaches for the cards, bracing himself for the zing of lightning of her skin under his fingertips. Her stare is defiant, at least till his knuckles brushes the soft skin of her stomach; then she bursts out into a girlish squeal and runs around the table so that it stands between them.

“_Festis bei umo canavarum_,” he mutters, but he catches himself grinning as he starts chasing after her. He feels ridiculous, lumbering about the study with his cock arrowing straight in front of him, but Hawke is laughing a breathy, silvery laugh, stockinged feet pattering against the floor, and once or twice he comes close enough to catching her he can smell the sweet fragrance of her hair.

He is merely humouring her, of course. The grin only widens across his face when he makes up his mind, and the study blurs past him in a rush of crisp blue light. He feels the same blasphemous thrill one might get from cursing within the Chantry’s hallowed walls: here he is, debasing his master’s intended purpose, dedicating his lyrium brands to such frivolous ends as catching a naked, giggling lover instead. Few thoughts are as satisfying.

Hawke is still looking back over her shoulder when he’s before her instead, closing his arms around her. She lets out a delightful yelp, and Fenris tosses her over his shoulder before she can squirm away.

She makes an outraged noise somewhere behind his back. “Oh, Maker, Fenris, you are _such a cheat_—”

“And _you _are a sore loser,” he retorts, earning himself another yelp when he smacks her bottom with one hand. The warm flesh ripples under his palm, and he gives it a loving squeeze as he returns to his armchair.

He sits back down, Hawke in his lap. She gasps, then breaks into startled laughter. “No wonder you were in such a hurry to keep playing,” she teases, tearing a groan out of him as she wriggles against him. “Shame you still have to win these off me”—she hooks one finger into the flimsy band of her smalls and gives it a tug—“and _I_ have to win these off _you_,” she finishes, and the same hand slips between their bodies to give the bulge in his trousers a squeeze.

Wicked Grace is the last thing on his mind now. He plucks the Angel of Fortitude out from under the waistband of her smalls and flicks it to the table. “Or not.”

Words fail her for once. Her pupils are huge with what can only be desire, only the thinnest ring of lyrium blue left around them; a sheaf of black hair slips out from behind her ear, and a waft of crushed flowers tickles his nostrils as he draws her against him. Her skin is flushed warm against his, the heat of it turning the air charged and shimmering with the promise of more. He tastes wine on her mouth as it falls open under his, and her lips part around a soft breathy moan that makes his pulse run high.

If he once thought their reunion would lessen the fire stirring his blood at the mere thought of her, he was gravely mistaken: every touch only leaves his hands hungrier for her skin, his mouth for her kisses, and his cock for her—

_Well_. Varric’s romances are doubtlessly replete with suitable euphemisms, but more pressing matters are at hand, writhing nearly naked in his lap.

He swings her legs around. Hawke gasps when she finds herself sitting back against him, her thighs falling open around his. “Taking your revenge?” she says, a new breathless hitch to her voice. Her shoulder blades heave against him as he holds her clasped to himself, his own pulse hammering against her back.

Fenris smirks against the curve of her shoulder. “You started it,” he reminds her.

He tugs her earlobe with his teeth before she can retort, then presses a kiss to the tender spot behind her ear. Ticklish as ever—she snorts and squirms against him, but with his cock still trapped in his trousers, the friction offers little in the way of relief. His senses sharpen to a point instead, committing her body to memory: its soft planes under his palms, the buds of her nipples tightening under his fingers, the fragrant fall of her hair as her head lolls back against his shoulder. This he never wants to forget—he could fill the great gaping void of his past with her, a memory of Hawke for each that Danarius chiseled away.

She reaches back to tangle one hand into his hair, and their lips meet again in a clumsy kiss, and strained moans spill from the seam of their mouths when his fingers find the cleft of her sex. Her arousal is already seeping through the silk; two fingers moving up and down the front of her smalls and he has her mewling in seconds.

Hawke makes a perfunctory noise of protest into his mouth when he slips a finger under the lace trimming of her smalls. “They are still on, are they not?” he replies, fingers venturing lower.

A shudder arches her body against him. “Cheat,” she chokes out, and he laughs despite the ache between his legs.

His hand finds her slippery and warm already. The fabric of her smalls somewhat hinders his movements, but he teases her, running light caresses over the slick flesh of her folds. Her body is wound tight with anticipation, bucking against him when he brushes the bud atop her entrance. An eager lover, Hawke, shameless when it comes to her pleasure: she props one foot on the edge of the seat, opening herself to his touch. He vaguely remembers having a point to make, but he complies with the unspoken demand instead, light feathery touches building into a rhythm as her hips move with his hand.

He loves her like this. Her pleasure unrestrained, just like her joys, her sorrows, and yes, even her moods sometimes, sore loser that she is, but this—_this _is for him alone: Hawke coming undone one fine scarlet thread at a time, moans rippling out of her exposed throat. No one else gets to see her like this, face smooth with wonder, their name spoken holy in fluttering prayer. She is clutching his arms with almost bruising force, leaning into his touch while his free hand runs flat along her thighs, cups her breasts, brushes her wet mouth. Her head lolls to the side as though it were too heavy for her neck; strands of silken black hair fall over her eyes, and slip between their lips as they touch again in a messy, frantic kiss.

Fenris could worship her forever, the ache of his arousal slowly resolving into pleasure as his hips keep rocking against her arse, his fingertips running slick over her sex. But she turns rigid in his arms before long, then shudders hard against him with a cry that ripples through the stillness of the room and leaves it feeling smaller.

He works her through the aftershocks, till her limbs turn loose and watery. “Here. You win.” He sucks the sweet taste of her off his fingers with a wet popping sound. “Happy now?”

But Hawke is shaking her head, one breast heaving under his palm as she gulps for air. “I want—I want _you_,” she sobs, and the throaty quiver of her voice leaves him tottering at the edge of his own climax.

No game here. The teasing is long gone from her voice, flaked off crisp and light, and what remains beneath is rich and dark as blood. Want—pure, primeval _want_, stripped of all else. He thought her peak would satisfy her, but knowing it does not suffice, not till she has him inside her?

How did he drag on the wait one minute, one _second _longer than necessary?

How did he ever last _three years?_

Fenris is up on his feet before he even thinks about moving, flipping her back onto the table. Her form blazes white against the dark wood; her black hair almost vanishes into the swirls and knots of the grain, scattered cards peeking through smooth locks. He catches her wrists in one hand and pins them above her head lest she come up with some new way to tease him, but she offers no resistance. Instead she watches him beneath sleepy lids, bottom lip caught in her teeth. There is no woman more beautiful than Hawke right now, eyes dreamlike with the afterglow, cheeks flushed with wine and pleasure.

It takes no strength at all to tear the damp wisp of silk off her, and then she is stretched before him, naked but for the stockings. She looks at him. “That thing cost me a sovereign, you know,” she points out.

Fenris frowns at the garment in his hand, more empty space than fabric. “This glorified tissue?”

A grin slants across her face. “You could say it was a … _ripoff_.”

He groans, then tosses the bit of gauze over his shoulder. She laughs her bright laugh, opening her legs in invitation. The flames do wondrous things to her body: her sex glistens in the firelight, while shadows pool in the dips of her collarbone and navel, gather between her breasts like an inlet flowing between pale islands. The sight should be indecent, but instead he thinks of those heavy-lidded portraits he’s found in a room of his mansion, the flesh lovingly rendered in oil paints and varnish.

He manages to pull his cock free one-handed, but her expression stops him. The affection is frightfully plain on her face. Adoring, almost. He will never get used to her looking at him this way, like a bloom following the sun.

Something claws at the back of his throat. As though he’s made a terrible mistake, wandered into the wrong room and saw something not meant for the lowly eyes of a slave. But this time he resists the impulse to look away, and keeps his eyes trained on her face till the incandescent blue of her gaze burns the old fear to ash.

“Fen?” she asks in a whisper.

“I am yours,” he breathes, perhaps more for his own benefit than hers. A non sequitur after that awful quip of hers, but her mouth curls into a smile, and that is stronger armour against the past than leather and plate. “Do you—”

“Yes. _Yes_.” The head of his cock brushes her entrance; she throws her head back at the touch, her throat shining like white gold in the firelight. “_Please_.”

He nearly spends himself from the choked sound of her voice alone. He means to take his time teasing her, but his cock slips whole into her as though they were made for this, broken pieces slotting back together. The white-hot current that roars up his veins is too intense for pleasure; it is quicksand, threatening to swallow him at the first move. Hawke is no help at all: the noise she makes thrums all the way down to the soles of his feet, and Fenris has to will his hips to remain in place till the tight coil of heat in his groin loosens enough for him to stretch himself on top of her.

His mouth finds hers; her breasts heave once under him, the mounds of flesh pressing up against his chest. A thin strand of voice escapes her throat, and what little space remains between their lips trembles, sending his cock pulsing deep inside her. He starts moving, slowly at first. Then she hooks her feet behind him and squeezes him hard enough to wring a cry out of him, and the blinding rush of pleasure is such that he slams into her once, then again, and then all he knows is Hawke: the taste of wine on her mouth, the tight sheath of her sex, the choked cries each of his thrusts drag out of her. He cannot remember letting go of her wrists, but her hands are now splayed on his back as he rams hard and fast inside her. He moves like a thing possessed, like a rutting animal: no tender lovemaking, this, and the crudeness of it might embarrass him if Hawke were not begging for more—harder, faster—in signs if not in words.

He slips a thumb between their bodies. Hawke tenses under him, her mouth a red, bruised ring around each cry she lets out. It takes him every ounce of willpower not to come right there and then; he tries to slow the steady rise of pressure inside him by focusing on the bite of her fingernails on his shoulder blades, on the dull pain of the table edge digging into his upper thighs, but she feels so unbearably good he cannot delay much longer. A few more thrusts and he spends himself inside her with such force his legs nearly give out under him, the release so sweet he cries out loud enough to rouse the Arenburgs next door.

He finds himself half-collapsed on top of her. The study is a blur of wavering shards around him, but he somehow manages not to stop or slow down, his hips moving to the hoarse sound of her voice as she nears a new crest. His hand works clumsily between her open thighs till she quakes, clenching his cock hard enough to send light flaring behind his eyelids again.

Fenris lets himself fall on top of her, knees locked before his legs buckle under him, and rests his forehead against the wood of the table. Hawke breathes a laugh, her body turning slack under his. Their chests heave together, their heartbeats hammering so hard he cannot tell his own from hers. He realizes he’s trembling, far too hard and far too long to be the mere aftershocks of his climax, and he does not dare move or speak, not trusting what his voice or face might betray. Hawke says nothing; her mouth is busy pressing kisses into his hair and along the taper of his ear, while her hands draw lazy circles on his back and shoulders till their breaths have evened out again.

It strikes him again, how strong, how _fierce_ this feeling. Ludicrous, that a game of Wicked Grace should nearly undo him. But seven years ago he trusted a stranger with his life: she held all the cards, and he never once thought the hand she dealt him would lead to this one day.

It does not make up for the past. Nothing can. And yet—

“Cheat,” Hawke whispers into his ear.

Fenris laughs despite himself, then squirms to dislodge a playing card stuck to his elbow. The table has moved a foot or two across the floor during their exertion, and his trousers are now gathered around his ankles as he stands bent over it. “Sore loser,” he retorts, resting his cheek against the table.

He brushes his thumb along the curve of her cheek; she grins, light fingers trailing the channel of his spine as she closes the distance between their mouths to kiss him again. “Mm, the good kind now,” she says, smiling against his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3 Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://aban-asaara.tumblr.com)!


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